


The red lights mean you're leaving.

by barthelme



Series: Where we know. [4]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-08-17 10:25:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16514567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barthelme/pseuds/barthelme
Summary: Apologies for being rusty. You don't have to read the previous parts of this series, but I probably would.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for being rusty. You don't have to read the previous parts of this series, but I probably would.

Timmy opens the apartment door just enough for his head to fit through. Finds Armie leaning against the kitchen counter, drinking a glass of water and thumbing through his phone; waits until Armie looks up, and then says, "We are _not_ keeping her, okay?" He quirks an eyebrow. Narrows his glare. Sighs, and opens the door. He lets go of the leash just before the mutt reaches the end and groans at the sound of nails scratching along hardwood floors. 

"Oh," Armie sets the glass down in the sink; it spills over and Timmy is certain it's broken.  
"My," Armie drops to his knees as the mutt skids against him, tail wagging so hard her entire body is like a snake.  
"God," Armie can't pet all of her at once, but he tries. Scratches behind her ears, her belly, her rump. Scrunches his face and laughs as she licks his nose, cheek, neck. "Shut the front door," he gasps. 

Timmy stands in the doorway, defeated. "Don't tell me to shut up, Armie." He cringes when the dog jumps up, paws planted firmly on Armie's shoulders. "No house, no dog. That's the--"

Armie is basically hugging the mutt. Stares at Timmy. "I meant literally shut the front door. We're not allowed to have pets in the building."

Timmy straightens and steps inside. "Oh, right. Yeah." Slams the door and locks it for good measure. 

_____

Her tag says 'Olive' and she responds to the name. She whines at the door when she needs to go outside (one of them walks ahead to make sure the coast is clear. It's a covert operation every time Olive needs to shit, which is an alarming amount, Timmy thinks. Three times in one night seems excessive.) Armie discovers she can sit and lay down on command. She can stay, but only for a few seconds. When Armie tosses a pair of rolled up socks across the living room, Olive chases them down, but she doesn't retrieve them. "She'll learn," Armie explains when Timmy snorts. 

"We're not buying her toys. She has a home and she's going back to it," Timmy reminds him as he takes the scrambled eggs off the burner. He holds the pan in one hand while he searches the cupboards for an acceptable dog dish. Settles on an old Tupperware with a missing lid. "And stop throwing shit; our neighbors aren't deaf."

They've had enough noise complaints to know this, and Timmy is fairly certain they can't blame the pitter-patter of paws on HBO. 

Later, Armie insists Olive sleep in the bedroom. He finds an old blanket and folds it up in the corner, tells Olive to lay down. She does and Armie pats her head and says, "Night, Olive Oyl."

Timmy is already under the covers. Rolled on his side, eyes closed, and bedside lamp turned off. Armie slides in behind him and tucks an arm around his waist. Kisses his shoulder, behind his ear. Rubs his nose along the prickly hairs on Timmy's neck that they're both still getting used to. That they're both glad seem to be growing faster than expected. 

("It doesn't look _bad_ ," Armie assured him. "Just different."

"Fuck me," Timmy said. Pulled up his hood and slouched on the couch. "If any of the kids even look at me weird, I'm assigning _The Jungle._ ")

Armie's hand moves to cup Timmy's cock and he tugs on Timmy's earlobe. "It's still early. I could--"

Timmy grins and opens his eyes. Finds Olive has sat up and is staring at him, tail thumping on the floor. He frowns. "Maybe tomorrow," he says and grabs Armie's hand. Laces their fingers together and presses their hands against his chest. 

_____

Armie takes the day off. After Timmy leaves, he lets Olive get in bed. She curls up next to him and he idly scratches her back as he searches Lost Dog pages on Facebook. No one seems to be missing Olive, so he gets up and makes her sit. Takes a picture (okay, he takes a lot of pictures), and posts it on a few of the pages. "Time to get you scanned," Armie coos. He leans down to kiss Olive's head and realizes that Timmy wasn't being dramatic last night. Olive _does_ smell a bit like a warm dumpster. "Breakfast first, then a bath, and _then_ the vet."

By the time Armie checks off breakfast and bath, it's almost noon. It turns out Olive doesn't like baths and Armie is awful at giving them. When he finally gets to the vet, the vet technician shakes her head and shrugs. "No chip. Here's a list of shelters and rescues in the area; call around and see if anyone has listed their dog as missing. If you e-mail us a picture, we have some sites we can put her picture up on."

Armie nods and takes Olive by the leash. "Right, I posted her picture in a few places." And that should be it, but his curiosity gets the best of him. "So, what happens if I don't find her owner?"

The technician laughs, "Then you've got yourself a dog."

Armie thinks about Timmy. Laughs and says, "I think my boyfriend would kill me."

He knows it's a joke, so he chuckles when the technician says, "Maybe you need to rethink the boyfriend, then."

Armie doesn't go right home. There's a pet store a block away so he stops in to check the clearance section.  
_____

Three years is a good chunk of time. In dog years, their relationship would be old enough to drink. And maybe they moved a bit quickly at first. Maybe they should've waited a few more dates before having sex and Armie probably should've waited longer than a month before sending chocolates to Timmy's work. Should they have waited longer to move in together? More than likely, but it made financial sense and things are just fine now. Armie's learned that the cleaner in the shower should be sprayed every day; it makes cleaning the shower so much easier on Saturdays. Timmy doesn't set six alarms every morning and he has stopped dog-earring Armie's books. There are a lot of things they should have done differently, but Armie wouldn't go back and change anything. Or at least anything major. 

But, three years is a good chunk of time. It's an even bigger chunk of time the older you get, and Armie is getting old. 

"You're not old," Liz says. She's cross-legged in the middle of the living room, giving Olive belly scratches. 

"You're only saying that because you're old as shit," Armie jokes. "And, you don't want kids."

Liz scoffs. "I want kids. I'm just not ready yet and I haven't met--"

"Nick would donate," Armie plops down next to her. Scratches Olive's chin. She wiggles on the floor and pants. "Sperm. Like, not funds to a nursery. He'd donate so much sperm."

Liz gags and stops scratching Olive long enough to punch Armie's shoulder. "That's disgusting. If I was going to get any of you to be my baby daddy, it'd be Timmy." She resumes scratching Olive. Grins at Armie. "His bone structure? My legs? Our kids would be models."

Armie can't argue. He'd be lying if he'd never thought about what their kids would look like. When it comes down to it, he'd probably insist they use Timmy's sperm. If not for the good genes, also for the sake of the surrogate. Armie was a ten pound baby; no one should have to go through that. 

"I don't think Timmy wants kids," Armie says. Bites his lip and leans back against the coffee table. Grabs for the ball he bought at the pet store and rolls it between his palms. "I mean, he's good with kids but he's never said he wants them."

Liz looks up. "He's younger than you, remember."

Armie doesn't need the reminder. Doesn't need to be reminded that Timmy's peers are still going to clubs and waking up in stranger's beds. That Timmy responds to texts mainly with gifs and memes. Armie doesn't need a reminder that Timmy still has a fast metabolism and rarely gets hangovers. He doesn't. 

"Right," Armie sighs. "But, whatever. We don't need kids."

They both know he's lying, but Liz just nods and asks Olive who the best girl is. "It's you," she answers. "Olive's the best girl."

_____

Timmy's pissed. 

"Why the fuck does she need a harness?" He holds up the tangled straps. She didn't like it the first time Armie tried to put it on her. "Armie, you need to bring all this shit back."

Armie snatches the harness away from Timmy and starts to untangle it, mainly just to be able to do something with his hands. "It didn't cost that much," he responds. "And we don't know how long she's going to--"

"We're not keeping her," Timmy says. "I fucking told you before she was even in the apartment that--"

"I know," Armie turns away and retreats to the living room. "But, we can't just drop her off at a--"

Timmy follows. "At a rescue? You mean one of those places that is equipped to deal with stray dogs?"

"She's not a stray. She's lost."

"Whatever." Timmy leans down and picks up the ball. Glares at Olive when he notices there's a yellow bow attached to her collar. "Jesus Christ. Armie, either we find her home or she goes to a rescue on Monday." He winds up like he's about to throw the ball across the room, and Olive jumps up. Her tail wags back and forth. " **No. Sit.** " Timmy commands a bit too roughly. She obeys. Her ears flatten. 

Armie takes a step towards Timmy and takes the ball from him. "You're scaring her," he hisses. "And why do _you_ get to make the rules? It's my fucking apartment, too." He tries to make his voice even, but Olive slinks away to the bedroom, head lowered and tail tucked between her hind legs. Armie sets the harness and the ball on the coffee table. "We can't just drops her off at a rescue. There is a family looking for her."

"I know that, Armie. But, we're not allowed to have dogs. That's why we have the _rule_ about waiting to get a dog until we get a--"

"A house, right." Armie rolls his eyes and walks to the kitchen. Grabs a glass from the dishwasher and fills it with water. "With your salary, I'm sure we can afford a huge yard for a dog to play in." He takes a long drink. Wishes the words were water and he could swallow them. Drown himself. Watches as Timmy's hands are drawn into fists. As he straightens them. Does that annoying thing where he cracks his thumbs and pointer fingers by harshly bending them. 

Draws them back into fists. "Oh, so I tell you that we can't have a dog in our apartment because _that's part of our lease agreement_ and I don't feel like paying a huge fine, and now it's all my fault because I have a shitty teacher's salary. That's really great. What a great fucking way to start the weekend."

"Well," Armie shrugs. Well, what? Fuck. 

"You're such a fucking asshole. Enjoy your fucking Friday," Timmy says. He hasn't even taken his coat off and Armie sees him check his pockets. Hears the keys jingle. Looks away as Timmy walks to the door and leaves. 

_____

Armie sleeps on the couch. He coaxes Olive out of the bedroom and makes a bed for her between the couch and the coffee table. He leaves the bedroom empty in case Timmy comes home; he'll need his space. 

Armie doesn't sleep, but he dozes. Rests his palm on Olive's head; rubs one of her ears between his fingers. He doesn't sleep until he hears the door open and close. The deadbolt lock. Timmy's shuffled footsteps walking through the apartment. Stopping, Armie assumes, to look at Armie on the couch. Then shuffling to the bedroom. The door doesn't close, but Armie doesn't follow him. He falls asleep. 

_____

They don't fuck like they used to, but they still have a lot of sex. Not every day like at first, but that would be weird, Timmy thinks. That would feel like a chore. An obligation. Timmy is pretty sure they have more sex than most people who have been together for three years. It's safe to say the sex is probably better, too. 

But that's not the point. They don't _fuck_ like they used to. It's been a long time since Armie's slapped him and an even longer time since Armie's come up behind him at the bar. Pressed his crotch against Timmy's ass and whispered, "You don't get to touch yourself tonight," against Timmy's neck. Even longer since they've cancelled plans because they were too tired to get out of bed. Too dirty, too satiated. 

But, they do fuck a lot for people who have been together for three years. And Armie isn't in his early thirties anymore. He's in his mid-thirties and that changes things, or at least that's what Timmy read online. 

He tries not to think about the other things he read online. How men who have reached their mid-thirties without settling down are less likely to have long-term relationships. Less likely to give in to new routines. More open to the bachelor lifestyle. 

Less likely to want kids. And get married. 

"And buy a house," Timmy whispers as he throws his pants toward the hamper. Climbs into the bed that seems huge without Armie's legs taking up the majority of the space. He stays on his side and pulls the covers up to his chin. The bed is cold and he wishes Armie would come in. He could even bring the damn dog. 

_____

Armie takes Olive running with him on Saturday morning. He doesn't have the metabolism that Timmy does. Checks every light pole on the way for fliers. Stops in the post office to see if anything was posted there. He switches to a quick walk when he's a few blocks from the apartment and calls the vet and a few other rescues to check if anyone reported a lost mutt that responds to Olive and is the best girl. Makes sure his Facebook messages are all birthday reminders, memories, and invitations to parties for people he hasn't seen in ten years.

"Where is your family," Armie asks Olive, who looks up at him.  
____

Timmy is eating cereal in the living room when Armie and Olive return. "No messages,yet, " Armie says and Timmy grunts. Takes another bite and sighs when Olive returns to the makeshift bed between the couch and the coffee table. She looks at him expectantly, but quickly lays down when she realizes he's not going to share. "I'll call again in a bit. And try a few vets that are further away. You said you found her a few blocks from here, right?"

"Yep," Timmy says. He's watching an old episode of _The Golden Girls_. 

Behind him, he hears Armie fill Olive's Tupperware with water before getting a glass of water for himself. Listen to the creak of the counter as Armie leans against it. "I'm sorry about last night," Armie offers. 

Timmy's sorry too, but he hasn't forgiven Armie. He says, "Okay." Takes the final bite of cereal and stands up. Chews slowly to avoid having to say anything more than what he has to; he drops his bowl in the sink and swallows. "I'm going over to Saoirse's."

Armie's thumb brushes his elbow and Timmy stalls for a moment. Bites the inside of his lip and wishes he had just dropped the dog off at a shelter when he found her. Armie asks, "Will you be back for lunch?"

Timmy shakes his head and grabs his keys. "Probably not."

"Dinner?" Armie pushes when Timmy opens the door. 

Timmy turns the knob, but doesn't pull the door open. Looks back at Armie and shakes his head, shrugs his shoulders. "I don't know. If I end up staying the night, I'll text." 

He pulls the door open and doesn't fight when Armie steps forward and holds the door ajar. Walks down the hall and doesn't turn around when Armie says, "I'll figure out the Olive situation, I promise."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took forever; I'm sorry.

Timmy doesn't text, but he also doesn't come home. 

Armie orders Chinese. Enough for four people, just in case Timmy does come home in time for dinner. In time for their nighttime routine of Timmy brushing his teeth and making muffled demands for Armie to get out of his way so he can spit. Armie smoothing moisturizer over his skin while Timmy flosses and rolls his eyes. Armie peeing while Timmy leans into the mirror and checks his pores, a smirk playing on his lips. Armie orders enough for four people in case Timmy comes home, because Timmy never knows what he wants and always ends up eating like he's at a Chinese buffet. Complains afterwards that his stomach hurts and he doesn't want to move or breathe.

When the delivery girl comes, Armie pushes Olive into the bathroom and closes the door. Probably tips her too much; Timmy normally does the food ordering and receiving. He doesn't look intimidating and Armie always feels he needs to tip more just for making people slightly uncomfortable. 

("You don't make people uncomfortable," Timmy told him once. "You just startle them."

"Which is a symptom of being uncomfortable," Armie replied, shoving almost half a piece of pizza into his mouth.

Timmy picked up a pepperoni and pushed it past his lips. "No, it's a symptom of being a giant who opens the door like they're inviting a camera crew in." He laughed when Armie kicked his thigh from across the couch. Mocked, "'Heeeeey, thanks for coming!' Who even says that? Of course they're going to come. You ordered from them, you fucking oaf."

Armie had kicked him again, but he laughed while doing it.)

Armie eats fried rice. Picks out the mushrooms and tosses them to Olive, who catches most of them in midair. It isn't until he's half done with his food that he thinks to check if mushrooms are safe for dogs. 

Google says it's probably fine, but Armie stops anyways. Says, "Stop that," when Olive rests her chin on his knee. Gives in and feeds her a small handful of rice.

_____

Armie stays up too late, as if being awake will mean there's a chance Timmy could still come home. He's watched all the late night shows--even Carson Daly--and is halfway through a _Star Trek_ rerun when he finally decides he can't keep his eyes open. Olive has fallen asleep next to him, her head on his thigh. 

He brushes his teeth, but doesn't bother with moisturizer. The lights in the kitchen are left on and Olive nestles against Armie's calves. He's halfway between a dream and wishing he'd gone to bed hours ago when he hears the rattle of a key in the lock. Cursing and the unmistakable thud of a foot against the kick-plate. Olive's ears perk up and Armie freezes for a moment, hoping her comfort will outweigh her curiosity. Hoping her comfort will keep him company. 

It doesn't work. Keys clang against the counter--not on the wooden key hook they spent an entire weekend picking out, returning (twice, because Timmy didn't like the black-brown, thought the white looked cheap, and _knew_ they should have gone with the natural to begin with), and crookedly screwing into the wall next to the door because they own two plungers and two can openers, but no level. Moving in together was weird. Continues to be weird. A key hook that Timmy insisted on because Armie kept losing his keys, a key hook that was the first thing they purchased as a couple for their home. A key hook that Timmy doesn't use this time, instead throwing his keys on the counter like he did the first week they lived in the apartment together. 

Right, so it doesn't work and Olive's body echoes her ears, every muscle twitching until she stands up and looks towards the crack of light coming into the room. Back at Armie, who sighs and nods. He holds his breath, but laughs inside as she hops off the bed and pads to the door. Noses it open and then disappears through the crack. 

Armie hears, "Oh, you," and he rolls his eyes. Debates rolling out of bed and continuing a fight at who-the-fuck-knows- _ante-meridiem_ because why not just really ruin the entire God damn weekend, when-- "I didn't mean it like that. I meant like," there's the sound of dead weight hitting the floor, a slight groan. "Fuck, that hurt. No, I mean like, _Oh, you!_ " and Armie bites his lip. Laughs. 

It's pretty hard to be upset with drunk Timmy. 

"Oh, you give good kisses, Olive. The best kisses. Way better than that asshole, Armie."

Armie pushes the blankets down to his waist. Rolls onto his back and puts an arm behind his head. "I can hear you," he calls out. 

"I know, Asshole."

Timmy doesn't come to bed, but neither does Olive. In the morning, Armie finds them on the couch. Timmy is pressed against the back, arms wrapped firmly around Olive, holding her close. Preventing her from slipping off the edge. He kisses Timmy's forehead, then Olive's nose. Walks to the kitchen and quietly grabs Timmy's keys before slipping out the door to grab coffee. When he returns he puts Timmy's keys on the second hook from the door.   
_____

They don't fight a lot, but they bicker like champions. Because Timmy chews with his mouth open, doesn't rinse out cans before throwing them in the recycling, and is constantly shaving over the sink, leaving tiny wisps of facial hair stuck to the porcelain once every two weeks. Because Armie never answers his damn phone and always wants to use the cast iron pan but never cleans it and then a rust ring forms in the sink that Timmy has to clean. 

But, they don't fight because, "I don't know," Armie shrugs. He squints into the sun and wishes he'd brought his sunglasses. It'd been cloudy when he left the apartment. He'd worried it would rain; Timmy was warming up to Olive and Armie didn't want to spoil that by returning from lunch with a wet, smelly dog. "We just don't have a lot to fight about."

"Except this dog," Nick says. He's remembered his sunglasses, so Armie can't read his face. 

"She has a name," Armie says, reaching under the table to pat her head. It was a gamble, but Olive is an excellent patio dog. 

Nick takes a bite of his grilled cheese. "I don't want to get attached. Anyways, you didn't answer my question."

"You didn't ask a question," Armie says before splitting the last fry on his plate in half. Eating one and giving the other to Olive, who gently takes it from Armie's fingers. He knows exactly what the question is, though, so he answers. "I don't know. He's just paranoid about our landlord finding out and having to pay a fine or whatever. Our landlord is _never_ around and--"

"Didn't Timmy paint your bedroom like the second month you moved in? And he lets you smoke pot--"

"As long as a window is open," Armie cuts in.

Nick rolls his eyes. "Right, because that totally prevented the yellow ceiling by the window. And doesn't he--"

"Use the counter as a cutting board," Armie offers. The sun has gone behind a cloud, but he still squints. 

They definitely aren't getting their deposit back. "I don't have anything left," Armie tells Olive when she whines. Rests her head on his kneecap.  
_____

They don't fight a lot, but they have perfected make-up sex. Even if they are still _technically_ mad at one another, it counts. Mad because Timmy wanted Armie to cancel with Nick so they could talk, mad because Timmy tripped on one of the cheap dog toys Armie had to buy, mad because they're stuck in this routine of waking up and falling asleep and being in love but nothing changing. Nothing pushing them to the next level or being able to break the code or beat the boss that gets them to the next level. 

Timmy has been playing too many video games. He should read more. 

It counts because Timmy is wearing one of Armie's sweaters, the grey one that got snagged on an old bike rack near the end of their fifth, seventh, who even knows date. The bike rack that Timmy had pushed Armie against before kissing his neck, lips lazy with alcohol and comfortable with Armie. The bike rack that was awkward for Armie to perch on top of, that Armie had to roughly push off of, while keeping an arm around Timmy's waist so he knew he wasn't pushing him away. The bike rack outside of Armie's old apartment that had no key hook and only one can opener, one plunger. The rack was rusted and his sweater snagged and Timmy had frozen and said, "Oh, shit," but Armie had pulled it loose and shrugged. Invited Timmy upstairs. 

Armie can't remember which date it was, but he remembers asking Timmy to fuck him. Not as a favor or some forged new relationship middle ground, but because he wanted Timmy inside him and had been thinking about it since their first date, the one that had spanned an entire day. Wanted Timmy inside his body, not just because he was handsome and had strong hands and an even stronger personality, but because he was also soft and giving and after all of this (yes, even then, Armie knew there would be an "all of this"), Armie wanted to ensure there was a piece of Timmy inside him, somewhere, everywhere. Something he could feel years later, flesh out when he was sorting memories. Put on a shelf of things to keep, even if everything else might hurt to remember. 

Timmy's wearing the sweater when Armie and Olive come home, and Timmy doesn't apologize, but he does lean over the counter as he sorts the mail. Shows Armie that there isn't much else to this outfit, and Armie asks, "What if Nick had come back?" Tries not to focus on the hint of Timmy's ass that peaks out from under the ratty hem of the sweater.

And Timmy shrugs, barely looks back over his shoulder (and Armie can see the faint blush, worried lip. Knows Timmy doesn't like to use his body as a bargaining chip, even though he's well aware of the clout he has over Armie. And not just because of the sinewy muscles in his thighs or because when Armie presses his fingers into Timmy's knee, he imagines he's feeling every bone, every tendon. God, he loves Timmy's legs, but they aren't his entire pull, not even by a fraction. But right now, right here--) and the corner of his mouth is upturned in a way Armie missed, even though it's only been gone a day. Is that all the longer it's been? "

What if?" And then Timmy's tossing an envelope to the side and pushing away from the counter. Walking towards the bedroom. Always long, confident strides, even when he's not sure where either of them are going.

Armie had wanted to talk, but it doesn't seem to be the time. He puts his keys on the hook, his wallet on the counter. Kicks his shoes off and follows Timmy. Finds him. 

Finds him on his knees and left forearm, temple resting on the back of his hand. Worried lip hidden between his teeth, eyes trained on the doorway. Armie's sweater falling forward, revealing the stretch of skin over his ribs. The slight wax and wane of his belly as he breathes in and out, in and out. His right arm stretched behind his back, and Armie can only see the profile of his movements, but he might as well be right there. Knows every inch, every slide, every pull. It might as well be his own hand, his own fingers. He wants it to be. Apologies can come later, if there's still time.

It counts as make-up sex because Armie locks Olive out of the bedroom. Ignores her whines at the door and takes his time. Because Timmy looks down at Armie as he stops the relentless rocking of his hips. Traces a thumb down the side of Armie's neck before letting his thumb press, just this side of too hard, against his Adam's apple. Draws him back in, brings him back to the first time, and says, "Pull my hair." And Armie does, just like the first time. Hopes it's not the last.   
_____

By Monday, Armie hasn't apologized. It seemed forced, unneeded. Almost like the words had been said and understood, except Timmy hadn't accepted. Or should it be the other way around? Timmy isn't sure and Armie doesn't know, but they go to bed early on Saturday and coexist through a lazy Sunday. Timmy even makes breakfast and Armie tries not to notice the yellowed ceiling above the window or the parallel cuts along the countertop. 

There have been no messages about Olive, and Armie says, "I'll set something up with a rescue," while sneaking Olive some bacon from the pan. Adds, "It's silly that you don't have the day off," to change the subject and hide the hitch in his voice. Armie always mentions this when his office is closed but Timmy's school isn't. Even more when it is, but the teachers still work.

"It's just an in-service. I should be back by three," Timmy says. Finishes his coffee and puts the cup in the sink. He gives Olive a quick scratch behind the ears. "If you want to wait, I can take her with you. To the--" he stops and shrugs. "You know." 

Armie nods and Timmy feels better about at least giving him one more day with Olive. 

Timmy used to be jealous of Armie for his extra holidays, but he knows it's hardly a day off. Today, Armie will be trying to find a home for Olive. Usually, he does their laundry, organizes the junk drawer. Runs errands they don't like to waste their weekends on, like standing in line at the DMV to get new tabs for the car they hardly drive. For the car that sits, unused, but Timmy insists on keeping. "You never know, we might want to go on a road trip," Timmy always says. They have never been on a road trip. Timmy doesn't like fast food and Armie hates being nice to strangers. 

Early on, Timmy would fantasize about down the road. It was always "down the road" and not "in the future," though they both seemed far away at the time and way too close now. Anyways, on his way to work, he'd fantasize about what Armie would do on his holidays off. Maybe he'd mow the front lawn or power wash the patio. Rake leaves, plant bulbs before the first frost, restain the porch. 

For now, there's the junk drawer. Sitting on hold with maintenance to complain that the garbage disposal still hasn't been fixed. The DMV. 

Today, Timmy kisses Armie goodbye and tries not to think about any of that on his way to work. Focuses on the here and now, the buildings flying by and the steady buzz of lives moving forward around him.   
_____

Nick and Timmy are hiding in the second floor teacher's lounge. It hasn't been used for anything but naps since the first floor lounge got a Keurig. 

"Your dog is cute," Nick says without looking up from his phone. "Total chick magnet," he jokes. 

Timmy sighs. "Not my dog. Not Armie's dog, either. Apparently, not anyone's dog. She's going to a rescue tonight."

At that, Nick looks up. "A what now?"

"A rescue. You know, for dogs."

Nick sets his phone down, screen up, and Timmy never understands how Nick gets as many texts as he does. It's always a steady stream. "And _Armie_ is okay with that?"

Timmy checks the time. They have ten minutes before their next speaker. "We're not supposed to have dogs at our apartment. And we have a rule about--" 

Nick cuts him off. "Yeah, I know. No house, no dog." Nick says, leans forward, says, "You guys should really pay me for this shit. Didn't Armie ever tell you about Rocky?" 

"Rocky?" 

"Rocky. Rocky the toy poodle. It was an awful dog, for the record. Bit me at least three times before it--" he mimics a syringe to the neck and plays dead for a millisecond, "--you know, and that was the same damn month that Armie's parents divorced."

"Okay?" Timmy tries to follow. Also tries to picture Armie playing with a toy poodle that, full grown, probably still fit in Armie's palm. Timmy has a hard time picturing Armie on a smaller scale. 

"So, his parents divorce and neither wanted the family home. They sell it and both get new houses and Armie and Vik are shuttled back and forth constantly. Living out of bags and shit. How much time do we have until--" Nick now mimics shooting a gun at his temple. 

"Five minutes," Timmy relents. 

"Right, okay. So, they were still going through custody battles and being genuinely awful people, trying to buy their sons' affection. And Dru thinks she should get a new dog, you know, to win Armie over. Armie loved Rocky; he was the only one that dog seemed to like. So, they go to the shelter and Dru lets Armie pick out a dog and that sentimental dork finds a dog named Rocky and decides that's the dog he needs. A mutt, but not a good mutt like Olive. This mutt would have been kicked out of every patio in town. Shoot, I'll finish on the way," Nick stands. Keeps talking as he walks out the door, knows Timmy enough to know he's at his heels. 

"I'm not following," Timmy says. Whispering in the halls out of habit, even if there are no kids around to eavesdrop on his personal life. 

"No shit," Nick says. His voice echoes down the hall. "Anyways, Dru hated that dog. It got mud everywhere and ate her shoes. Would run away at least once a month and they'd spend an entire night driving around looking for it. But, when it came time for Armie and Vik to pick where they wanted to live, Armie picked Dru's house."

"Okay?" Timmy pulls the door to the cafeteria open; the slight rumble of their colleagues talking greets them. 

"The mutt made it feel like home, you idiot. Jesus, I can't believe they let you teach the youth of America." Nick walks into the cafeteria, towards the snack table. "Literature, at that. Aren't you supposed to be able to read between the..." his voice trails off once he spots M&Ms.

"Oh," Timmy says, more to himself than to Nick. Lets the door swing shut behind him and looks around the room for the principal. Finds her and takes long strides in her direction, knowing exactly where he is going. 

_____

Armie and Olive are sitting on the apartment steps when Timmy gets home. A tote bag is next to Armie, the hint of a stuffed toy sticking out from the top. Timmy twirls his keys around his finger, pockets them when Armie stands up. "I found a rescue a few blocks a--"

"How much does Olive weigh?"

Olive cocks her head to the side and leans back on her haunches. "Forty-eight point three pounds," Armie says without hesitation. 

"She _looks_ no more than forty-five pounds if you ask me," Timmy says. He picks up the tote bag and walks up the first two steps. Looks up at Armie, who is still standing on the first step. Moves up one more step so they are eye level. "And our lease says we can have dogs under forty-five pounds. There's just a monthly fee."

Olive stands up and tugs her way up the stairs. Armie moves up one step, and Timmy counters, taking two. "But you said--"

"You'll have to make dinner on Thursdays," Timmy interjects, "Because that's when full rehearsals are for theater." 

Armie opens his mouth. Closes it, knowing that for once he should probably shut up. Olive whines, but it's an excited sound. Not like the whines she made when Armie was packing up her toys. 

"They've been looking for a new advisor and I told the principal I'll do it. It's only a couple hundred a month, but it'll cover the extra rent and all the dumb toys I'm sure you'll buy." 

"They're not dumb," Armie says, but he grins. Uses his free hand to grab Timmy's t-shirt and pull him closer. To kiss along his jaw, under his ear. Hears a whistle from across the street, but ignores it. 

"They're pretty dumb. Now let's go home," Timmy says, but he doesn't move closer to the front door. Instead, wraps an arm around Armie's neck and leans against his body. Knows he doesn't have to worry about Armie letting go. 

Someone passes and mutters, "Get a room," and Timmy can feel Armie's response bubbling in his chest. Catches his lips in a kiss to silence him, to let him know this is all okay, that everything is okay. An acceptance and an offer. 

By the time they untangle themselves, Olive has laid down on the stoop and the hair at the nape of Armie's neck is a mess. Timmy trades the bag for Olive's leash and leads everyone inside, says, "And, make a vet appointment. She needs to be registered and chipped. Nick says you have a habit of losing dogs."

"Rocky was a free spirit," Armie starts in, but Timmy is already halfway up the stairs.

**Author's Note:**

> bartbarthelme on tumblr.


End file.
